Why Silence Harms 2SLGBTQIA+ Christians
Jamie Arpin-Ricci
(from 2020)

When I first came out as gay as a teenager (and later more accurately as bisexual/pansexual), I made a point to tell people that I did not accept my orientation as a point of faith. Unlike today, where I am fully affirming, at the time I could not reconcile my faith and sexual orientation. And in truth, I also knew that to do so would end my place in the only community of faith that I had ever known. I was sure that, as long as I made it clear that I held to “traditional beliefs” on the topic, everything would be ok.

While a few people reacted poorly, like the classmate who declared with a mix of shock and pity, “You’re going to hell!”, most people received it surprisingly well. It was made easier for them, no doubt, by the fact that I wasn’t asking them to “accept” me or change their beliefs. Still, given the few really bad experiences I had with others, I was surprised. People asked a few questions, listened carefully, and seemed to be ok with it. I finally started feeling hopeful.

Then something changed. Within a few weeks of telling people, no one brought it up again. No one asked how I was doing. No one offered me help on where to go from here. Now, keep in mind that this was nearly 20 years ago in rural Canada. Coming out at all, let alone in a Christian context, was terrifying and often dangerous. Why was no one talking to me about it?

At first, I assumed they were just being polite, leaving it to me to initiate the conversation. While I expected as much from some people, when it came to those closest to me- family and friends who I looked to for support and counsel- I was surprised to find them also silent. I had hoped that people would care enough to follow up. It seemed that they did not.

So I started bringing it up again. This time, instead of the openness of before, I was met with disinterest. Most people weren’t blatantly rude or cold about but instead seemed almost distractedly indifferent. They would listen, nod, perhaps even mumble an obligatory “mhmm” but they wouldn’t engage. I would push further to no avail. People were simply unwilling to talk about it. I was completely at a loss as the fear and loneliness began to creep in again.

I’m sure they all had reasons for their silence. Discomfort. Fear. Confusion. Or the age-old truism, “If you don’t have something nice to say, better to not saying anything at all.” And yet, I suspect that more than anything, many were motivated by denial. They were uncomfortable with my disclosure and would rather pretend it wasn’t there. After all, I had said my piece, promised to “behave”. What more was needed?

For me, much more was needed. I was a confused kid who needed to talk about it, to understand, to have my fears assuaged. Before, I assumed there was nothing worse than living with this dangerous secret. And perhaps, in the long run, it would have been worse. Yet at that moment, as family and friends remained silent amid my fear and uncertainty, I had never felt more alone in my life. I had naively assumed that by admitting I had a problem and asking for help that it would result in receiving actual support.

As fear turned to paranoia, I found myself imagining the conversations they might be having in private. Were my parents secretly discussing options on how to fix me? Were my peers wondering if I was just doing this for attention? Did my guy friends fear that I might be attracted to them? Were the adults considering whether or not they should overturn my role at the kid’s camps I worked at every summer? Whether or not those conversations ever happened, I suspect rather strongly the silence they offered me was a reflection of their own internal “solution” as well. If we don’t talk about it, it’s not really there.

It was there. It didn’t go away. I didn’t go away and I needed them. I was a kid and I needed help. How was I to understand what I was going through? There were no books I could turn to. The internet, while in its early years, was far from being available in my little corner of the world. Without the support of the people in my life, I had no idea where to turn. More than anything, I wanted to know that my faith was going to be ok. I wanted to find a way to reconcile what I was feeling with my commitment to being a follower of Jesus. Nothing in my years of church, Sunday school, youth group, Christian school, or anything prepared me to understand this unexpected reality. In the end, the first real substantial support I received came from a very different source.

Then one day, as I pulled into the driveway of our youth leaders home where our weekly teen Bible study was about to happen, I noticed someone sitting on the grass in the backyard while everyone else had headed inside. I recognized her as Anne, a girl I had gotten to know and become friends with through an inter-school event we both participated in. While she wasn’t into religion, she was there to drop off her younger sister and wait until it was over. Anne was a genuinely funny person who shared my warped sense of humour. I had not seen her in months, so I decided to opt-out of the study and hang out with her.

In truth, I really wanted to talk to her about my sexuality. You see, Anne was also somewhat infamous in our small town for being the first openly gay person in the local high school. Who better to talk to? Except I was nervous. After all, Anne had fully and publicly accepted her sexual orientation. And not being a Christian, she had no interest in having to reconcile herself to my belief system. Still, she seemed the only person I could talk to who would be unlikely to fall into silence.

And so we sat in the grass and talked. After some idle chit-chat, I finally worked up the nerve to tell her that I was gay.

“Stand up,” she said, jumping quickly to her feet. As I cautiously stood up, she instantly embraced me with a fierce and apparent understanding. There was something in her hug that was different from the one I had received from others. Their hugs had been ones of comfort. Anne’s hug was one of welcome, of understanding, of solidarity. We were present with one another in a way I had not experienced with anyone else precisely because she understood. She knew. We were truly together.

All at once I felt overwhelmingly accepted. Her eyes were filled, not only with a burning commitment to being there for me but also with deep relief that she was not alone either. That’s when I started to feel guilty. I had not yet told her that I didn’t accept my sexuality and I knew it would smother that look in her eyes.

“Anne, I… can’t accept being gay.”

“Why not?” she asked, the light in her eyes growing dimmer, her shoulders slumping slightly.

“My faith tells me it’s wrong. I don’t understand why but I do know that if I have to choose between this and God, I have to choose God. Jesus is just too important to me.” The sincerity of my words surprised even me. This wasn’t regurgitated religious rhetoric. I genuinely loved Jesus and was (naively) willing to spend the rest of my life single and alone if that’s what it took.

“Well,” she said, clearly disappointed, “I hope to find something I love that much in my life. I just wish you didn’t have to choose.” I simply nodded. What other option was there? We chatted some more but the Bible study soon ended and we said our goodbyes.

A few weeks later at Bible study, Anne’s sister handed me an envelope, which she informed me was a gift from Anne. Inside was a small booklet. I cannot remember the title or the author but it was a simple explanation of why the traditional view of homosexuality was not the only way a Christian could read the Bible. While I read the book with longing more than once, I didn’t accept its message for many years. However, what stuck with me more than anything was this: Anne, who had no reason to defend my religion, had gone out of her way to find something that would allow me to accept who I was and keep my faith.

Consider that for a moment: As a scared Christian teenager, I come out as gay to my family and friends, desperate for some answers and support. And yet it was the “unbelieving” lesbian who took the time and energy to offer me that support. More than that, she did so on my terms, trying to affirm a religion that she not only didn’t share but one that had largely condemned her as a dangerous pervert. No greater love than this… I only wish that I had fully appreciated at the time the depth of the love that Anne had shown me in that act.

Anne’s embrace and active support was a beacon of hope in the midst of the dark silence from everyone else in my life. I wish I could say that the silence ended in time. In truth, most people never said another word about what I had shared with them, even decades later. When it did come up, it was because I brought it up again, forcing it into the light. It was only when I discovered the wider community of faithful LGBTQ2S+ Christians that I could truly leave that silence behind.

This isn’t to say that saying anything is better than silence. There were many who spoke deeply harmful things to me when I would have rather them be silent. There are right and wrong things you can say and do to people as they come out. And it is on you to do the work to learn what’s right. Rather, my point is that do not assume that silence is neutral or harmless.

In this way, silence is a pervasive and powerful enemy to queer Christians who are coming out, regardless of what they believe about their own sexuality. It locks us in the despair of isolation and insignificance, reinforcing the already dreaded notion that we are not loved and that we do not belong.

We are loved and we do belong. So tell us so.